I paused upon the threshold, all apart,
As some stray bird upon an ocean drift,
Unstirred by any wave, save when my heart
Yearned for its morning “lift.”
And from within me a strange undertone
Thrilled thro’ my bosom with a wish for wine,—
“Pass freely!—these in wood may be thine own,
Dry, sweet or superfine!”
I looked—and saw a lady within call,
Brow bound with golden ringlets standing there;